


Playing with Jax

by Alex_deMorra (Ergo_Sum)



Series: Fence Sitter [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergo_Sum/pseuds/Alex_deMorra
Summary: Chapter 3: Fence SitterMicah's in grad school where he meets and falls in love with the girl of his dreams, Jax.But when Jax learns that Micah is bisexual, she asks him to help her live out a fantasy, which he does reluctantly, with his previous lover Dante.





	1. Chapter 1

Of all people on campus that she could have chosen, of all the guys making their play, how was it _me_ that ended up with her?

The girl from the coffee cart.

I’d seen her everywhere for months. Everywhere as in I saw her as she worked behind the espresso machine at the coffee cart in the middle of the oak grove, as she walked from place to place on campus, and as she was projected onto the back of my eyelids.

Everywhere.

The one with super short hair, sticking out at all angles, sometimes tipped with pink or blue or green and usually these little barrettes clipped right at the front in the way that a little girl might, but with a completely different effect.

Also, her neck. It was long and smooth in a flawless pale ibis and vertebrae that inspired fantasies of my tracing a caduceus around them. With my tongue.

She had bright and twinkly blue eyes that were round and dipped down at the sides, and her eyelashes, even though they weren’t so long, they were spiky with mascara, the only make-up she ever wore, and curled just enough to sweep along the tops of her eyelids so that it looked like she was always alert and on to you.

Her mouth was forever tilting upwards, sometimes it was subtle, most times it was not. Depending on which it was, you might see a little divot less than a centimeter out from the right side of her mouth where her top lip met the bottom. Her lips were the color of cherry chapstick pink, always smooth and just a little bit shiny, and I could say that they begged for attention but that would just be me wishing again because, honestly, she never needed to beg for a thing.

She reminded me of Tinker Bell. Maybe an emo version. When she worked, she wore docs. Usually the blue ones with the toes scuffed down to beige. When she was reading on the grass in the quad, she was barefoot.

Sometimes she wore jeans with rips in the knees but her preference was for dark blue dickies cut off at the knees, threads woven around the rebellious display of the fine brown fuzz brushing along her sinewed legs. Her shirts, never new, were tanks or short sleeves, sometimes opening with snaps, browbeating my imagination in to scenes that began with a _rat-tat-ta-tat_ sound that accompanied my prying her shirt open one quick motion.

And she never wore a bra.

Fuck.

Her tits, pint-sized and perfect, stood straight out, puffy tips imprinted through cotton to greet me before any other part of her did. I had to remember to look up before she’d grab my chin to raise my eyes for me but it took unnatural feats of strength to do so. Even though, god, of course, she was a million things more than her tits.

That said, they were glorious.

They were also my secret weapon. Because if she was bummed or pissed or tired or I did something wrong, all I had to do was to run my finger in circles, tracing rings around her areola, and she’d forget whatever it was that bothered as she sighed or purred or made whatever happy, content sounds she could think of to make.

Those times, like so many others, made me think to myself, _how the fuck did I get so lucky?_

Before I met her, I’d found out through a friend of a friend that her name was Jen Ackerton. She didn’t look like a Jen to me; it always felt just a little bit off. Then one day, I got lucky, I’d overheard someone who shouted something about an order, though she didn’t hear it. Probably because she couldn’t hear over the sound of the steam. So they hollered her name. Her real one. The one that fit her best: Jax.

And like so many things, once you know, you know, and this knowledge became a the grain of sand, ripe for depositions of nacreous layers — one after another after another after another.

Of course, that made me the oyster.

She was so much cooler than me. I didn’t know why this didn’t seem to bother her, but it didn’t.

And easier. She was so easy to be with that she made me easier to be with. The way she could untangle my complications was fucking magic. “Give the hamster a rest, Micah,” she said frequently because she knew that I was still thinking about a thing I could have said, or written, or created after the time for its expression had come and gone.

The thing between us kicked off after we’d bonded over watching a guy in the library wake up from a dead sleep. He sat up abruptly, completely unprepared for the long string of saliva that kept him attached to the puddle of drool on the wood veneer surface that was so recently a proxy for his pillow.

He was embarrassed and appeared to be caught between wanting to erase his evidence and wanting to run. I handed him the napkin from my brown bag lunch, and lowered my eyes as he wiped his chin and the table, and I kept them down as he silently gathered his books, slipping away from the table and out of the library.

I had known she was there. In fact, her being there was the reason that I reconnected with an urgency to study for economics at that very moment. I didn’t realize that she’d seen the same thing that I did. And I didn’t expect for her to slide into the chair next to me with a smirk. Or to knock my elbow with hers in order to get my attention. Or to say under her breath so that only I could hear, “poor guy…lucky he was near someone with the ability to pull napkins out of lunch sacks.”

We spent the rest of the day together, with her studying chemistry and me studying economics, and us together studying our fellow library patrons. She started it. She placed her left forearm over mine and wrote in the margin of my spiral notebook:

_Ironed white blouse: able to shower under the most nefarious of circumstances._

The ability to weld judgments in the form of imagined superpowers and the willingness to share it with me? I was elated. It was almost too much. My eyes raised from my notebook to sweep the room until I found another suitable candidate. I extended my right hand onto the scratch paper she was using to take notes and wrote:

_Hemp bag in blue and purple stripes: able to inhale through the right nostril and exhale through the left, ad infinitum._

She snorted.

I was in love.

Jax was someone worth learning how to make a good curry for. Not just one. All of them. In the global sense. Japanese and Thai Green, Tikka Masala and Rogan Josh. Curries from Indonesia, Pakistan. From Kerala and Gujarat and the freaking Philippines. I went broke in the international spice shops along University Avenue.

One evening after trying to impress her with a thing made from eggplant rumored to be something eaten in Afghanistan and served with rice, I took her to see my favorite curry of all: Tim. She got to see him in my favorite, which was with corsets and fishnets and promises of making men like Brad, and by extension, men like me, into a man.

That night was the night that I told her.

That was also the first night we spent together.

Thank god it went in that order because it could have gone either way. When I told her, I mean.After all, that particular moment of sharing had gone so wrong so many times in the past. Just the idea of bringing the topic up kicked my ass from here to the other coast.

I made her breakfast of oatmeal with blueberries and tea.

She painted my toe nails in cobalt blue. When they dried, I could see that she had etched hearts and polka dots in them.

A half an hour after we started to study again, we were back in bed.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, this bi thing you have going on…”

“Umm,” I objected, knowing what she was going to say before she even said it, and I hoped that she would cotton on to the fact that I didn’t want to hear about how she thought it was a good idea to start experimenting.

These were conversations that I’d had a lot. More times than I wanted. It had never come up with someone I was with. But the idea had been thrust upon me in just about every other situation imaginable. Straight couples who wanted to try things with a second dick to spice things up. I didn’t even have to know them well in order to be fair game. Then there were guys who wanted to experiment. Girls who wanted their guys to experiment.

And here’s the thing.

All of those things can be awesome.

But there is no sign on my head that says I want people to come up to me asking for my participation just because they happened to know that I’ve fucked men and I’ve fucked women and enjoyed both. It got tiresome. Formulaic. There’s a “you are _this_ so you must want _that_ and I want _that_ too. Therefore I have needs and expectations that you are the most reasonable person to fulfill just because I happen to know that you are bi.”

Yup.

And sometimes I’ve said yes.

And most of the times I’ve liked it.

But I started getting an allergic reaction to this conversation and there is no verbal equivalent of an off-the-shelf antihistamine to make me quit my response to it.

Even though this is Jax.

I mean…Jax… _please_ , I think, _please understand what you will do to me if you ask this_.

She didn’t understand.

Apparently, her gift for reading me didn’t apply to this particular taste for adventure.

She continued her thought, “I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like with two guys.”

“Jax,” I appeased, not wanting to leave her feeling rejected or ashamed for whatever it was that she wanted because, lord, I’ve been there so many times, “you are straight.”

“I am,” she drawled, an eyebrow raised to let me know this was actually a question.

“How would you feel if I said I wanted to be with two girls?”

She frowned in contemplation. After a moment or two, she conceded, “I might try it.” That was not the response I was going for. Or expected.

“What if you had already done it before and you didn’t … okay. I can’t say that I didn’t like but but it feels wrong. I really only want to be with you,” I explained.

She didn’t necessarily agree, “Babe. We have tons of time for it to be just you and just me. But before we leave school, there are things I want to do. Things I want to try and it would mean a lot if I got to try them with you. Things that won’t be available to us in the real world.”

“I’m pretty sure that people have threesomes into their thirties and, hell, probably into their sixties for all I know. I really don’t think the opportunities for kinky sex ends with graduation.”

“Well, what are your fantasies?”

“You. I only want you.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to say,” she teased. I can’t tell if she’s honestly that naive or whether she’s pulling some trick of willful ignorance that she’s never played with me before.”What if you do something for me and I do something for you?”

I hated this. I hated the idea of her asking me, of wanting to share me. I wanted her to want me so fucking bad that she never even wanted me to think about me with someone else. “Are you…?”

She pressed up against me, sliding her hands down into my pockets to get closer to my ass. “What, baby?”

“Are we okay?”

She smiled confidently and gorgeously without heed of my concern, “We are _so_ okay.”

“If I really didn’t want to share you with anyone, would that be okay?”

“That would be a very sweet reason to not like this idea.”

“I can’t tell me if you think it would be okay or not.”

“I don’t want to force you, babe. I just…I dunno…I don’t know why you wouldn’t jump at the chance. You like guys and you love me and you could have both for an evening. How would that not be perfect for you?”

“Because…Jax.”

We’d only been together for a few months. Long enough to feel like we knew each other but not long enough to actually know each other. There’s this rule I have. Six months. You didn’t know someone for at least six months and if they made you cry before then, you shouldn’t remain in a state of knowing them intimately. That’s not actually my rule. I got it from someone else but I’ve appropriated it. Now it was mine.

Now, I’m worried about breaking it.

“Jax, I’m going to go out on a limb here and I really need you to listen.”

She got serious and she removed her hands and unpeeled herself from me and she stepped back, not to distance herself, but to let me know that she was listening. I grabbed for her hands and I held them in my hands and I brought them up to my chest and I bared my soul, “I cannot stand the thought that I’m not enough for you.”

Her eyes met mine, wistful and sad and caring, “Baby. You are so enough for me. Would it be the same if I just watched?”

“You want to watch me fuck another guy?”

“Yeah. I’d be hot.”

“You’d really be okay with me fucking someone else?”

“You’re _with_ me. I love you. We love each other.” She stopped and sighed, defeated. “It was just and idea and a bad one. I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“How about this?” I started, uncertain as to why I would give this away, not after all I’d just admitted and being almost okay with how she relented, “if there’s a situation. Wait. I got it.”

“Yeah?” She perked up.

“We could…what about porn?”

“Porn? That’s so gross.”

I rolled my eyes at her, “You’d rather see me cheat on you?”

“Not cheating. I’d be right there. You wouldn’t be doing anything I wasn’t on board with.”

“What’s wrong with porn?”

“People get objectified. I don’t want to objectify people. I want real people. I want real you. I want to see your face when someone touches you in a way that I haven’t learned to touch you. I feel like I’d know you more.”

There was something wrong with this argument and I couldn’t figure out what it was. I have better grades than her but, of the two of us, she was the one that was the cleverer.

“Can I think about it?”

“Sure. Think about it. Bring it up whenever you’re ready.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”


	3. Chapter 3

_This_ was a bad idea.

This was not _just_ a bad idea.

This was a whopper of an idea. So said the ache in my bones and the twinges at the sides of my thighs. It was mostly nerves. Though it was also this feeling of going over a cliff and of the reminder of that goddamn reference about still being you and you having all of your _problems_ regardless of a fresh start. I’m scared of this _problem_ and of the pendulum swinging back when I thought that I could be something and remain for a little bit longer before it all changed again. My mind urged me forward even as my body, wiser than I, was fighting this.

That’s how I came to be here.

I haven’t been back here since Danny caught Tony sucking Roberto’s dick in the bathroom. And though he and Tony had already broken up, Danny beelined it from buzzed to completely drunk, wherein all 140 pounds of him attempted to teach Tony a lesson. He ended up falling all over himself, and proceeded to regurgitate voluminous levels of undigested matter that used to be several cocktails and a carne asada burrito that went all over Tony, me, the floor, and the cigarette girl.

We were kicked out that night. And Danny was banned. After that, we stuck with the bars that used to be relegated as Plan B.

I saw Angel dancing first. He was long and lean and angular with a deep baritone voice. He had a penchant for dark velvet coats as dark his skin, red candles, crystals, and honey-flavored dust brushed on with feathers.

There were others I knew and other’s I had known, not that I was keen to know them again and I continued to skate my attention over them until I saw Scott, a jock who was perpetually on that edge of sunburn, more red than brown and usually several degrees warmer than I. That said, he was very considerate and always well moisturized.

Both of them were generous in bed and were also the most likely to appreciate, or at least be unfazed by, a straight woman watching on. But between a choice of the lush, supercharged erotic vibes of Angel and the rough endurance of Scott, there was a third option that was even better.

Dante.

He was Angel’s ex.

I suppose, to a much smaller degree he was also mine.

More crucially, he was Tiffany’s. Crucial because it was her who suggested the idea that led to the three of us getting together on the top of a hill, surrounded by dank, shedding bales of straw, while the two of them bantered in in a stream of thee’s and thou’s and rules from their guilds while she removed his codpiece and dagger. Dante suggested and then offered up the absinthe filling his stainless steel hip flask. Soon thereafter, the need for said flask was virtually eliminated as we passed the alcohol from mouth to mouth. All too soon, this was followed by things that for the first time in eight hours, didn’t require me to pretend that I understood a word of their centuries olde world-y, and possibly made up-y, English.

Dante and Tiffany were together for the rest of the faire season. Dante and I were sort of together for the month after that. Then he moved a thousand miles away for the last two years of college and he stayed away for two more to finish his masters.

And then, he returned. Or, so I heard.

The rumors were correct.

There he was with his tangle of coarse, thick brown hair that used to fall to the middle of his back and now hung to the hollow of his collarbone. His chin was, exactly as I remembered, in it’s natural state of permascruff, because to stay clean shaven, he’d have to do so twice a day and, because he didn’t like the act itself, he resisted doing so more than twice a week. That said, I had never seen him with a full-on beard either.

He paid for his drink at the bar and ambled toward me. He twisted his ample shoulders to one side and then the other as he weaved his way through the crowd to get to me. He got closer and I saw his smile. Unlike Jax, whose continuous smile was a reflection of her contentment, Dante’s was due to his continuous state of being in on some joke, possibly a universal one that always went over my head. He took nothing seriously.

“Micah…” he drawled, as he swept his eyes over me in in his characteristic amusement, “I didn’t think I’d be seeing _you_ in here anytime soon.”

“Hey,” I said nonchalantly, as if he weren’t the reason I had come out tonight, or someone I hadn’t pined after for years, “I heard you were back. How are you?”

“You heard I was back, huh? I’d heard you were with someone.”

“I am. I just…” I began and then I chickened out, “I shouldn’t be here. I need to go but…let’s catch up.” I hoped I’d sounded chipper and confident, or perhaps carefree, though I figured too late if he knew me at all, he’d know I never was. Carefree, I meant. Before I could have stuck my foot in any deeper, I turned, made a beeline for the door, and walked out before I could change my mind.

I didn’t realize he’d followed me until half way down the block where the traffic got quiet enough to have heard the heavy clomp of his boots over my own internal voice that shouted at me, full of chastisements. “Wait up,” he called. Then he slid his hand through my elbow, and twisted me toward him to slow down and stop. “What was that about?”

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t want him to see my embarrassment over my ridiculous behavior, or at least the precursor to my ridiculous behavior that hasn’t happened yet except in my own head and at the same time, I knew full well that whether or not I felt ridiculous wasn’t the point. It’s that once again I couldn’t make up my mind, to come up with a plan and stick to it, and that I was, in that exact moment, frustrated over my perpetual state of second guessing myself. 

I took all of that and collapsed it down to, “You won’t believe it.”

“Try me,” he said.

And without giving me further opportunity to demur, he guided me into a quiet bar with sticky cement floors and cracked red vinyl seats that sparkled with gold, and two dollar beers that came in white cans with a blue stripes, served up by the bartender that has been here since her mile high bouffant was in style.

Dante wanted to know so I told him.

I told him about Jax and about what she wanted. I told him why I was worried and about how long we’d been together and about how I didn’t want things to get fucked up and of my perception that there was an equal probability to fucking things up by going along with the plan to play out her fantasy as compared to not. 

I asked him whether he’d been in a similar situation (he had) and whether or not it played out like he wanted it to (it was complicated).

We talked at length about what would make him do it again and the things he would need and the things I would need. In this case, I wasn’t sure that was possible, especially when my top choice for doing such a thing was so close to me and he gave me every indication that he’d be up for it. In a moment where everything seemed so crystal clear, we finally, finally, we got to…so would he?

He seemed incredulous. “You came out tonight to find me?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Because you surprise me.” He sat there with one arm on the bench behind him and one laying on the wooden table between us, his eyes were on mine, though focused on something else and he chewed on his lip while his brain worked it all out. “She’s waiting at your house?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to do this tonight?”

Did I?

Maybe?

I don’t know?

Crystal clear.

“Yeah.”

He held his hand out, palm up, and he curled his fingers wanting me to give him something. “Lemme talk to her.”

“Why?”

“Cause I want to know if she’s cool enough to see my dick.”

I laughed, “Your dick has been seen by an extraordinary number of people along the entire continuum of coolness. So, don’t even.”

“Ugh. I’m hurt. You are deeply damaging my emotional health right now, Micah Swaeler.”

“I’m not.”

“No, you’re not. But…,” he elongated the u so it was more like buuuuut, raised an eyebrow and paused as would some great magician named The Great Dante would do while waiting to show you his trick, “if she’s as cool as you say she is, she won’t mind sharing her expectations so I don’t accidentally fuck things up for you.”

“Oh. ‘Kay.”

He held out his hand again while I got her on the phone. Then I watched him disappear around the corner for a few minutes to say who knows exactly what to my girlfriend only to come back holding my phone, now disconnected, in his outstretched hand for me to take back.

“You’re right. She’s cool,” he confirmed, not that I needed confirmation but it was nice to have his confidence. “So…if you’re ready, I guess I’ll follow you?”

He followed me home, through the gate, into the one bedroom cottage rented by Jax, and then through the house to her room, where she had turned on the strands of blue LED lights that she kept up year-round. She was somewhere in here, hiding in a place where she saw us and we couldn’t see her back. All necessary supplies were on the nightstand to the right of her queen-sized bed, including a folded set of washcloths that I knew from experience would smell like lemongrass tea.

My guts were captured somewhere between the top and bottom of my throat, and they threatened to choke me if I didn’t push them to one side or the other.

Dante, who seemed immune to my plight, toed off his shoes and tugged at the hem of his shirt to release it from his trousers. He walked toward me and he continued to do so until he stood before me so that his toes faced my toes. Our fingers linked together and he bent the few inches required to put his mouth to my ear to confide, “I want to put on a show with you, Micah. You and me, man. Let’s turn her inside out.”

That was the tipping point.

The conduit he spoke into, my passage, the one framed by folds and whorls whose primary purpose was to collect sounds, to funnel waves from a place that once meant something to a place where they will mean something again, flooded with warmth. His warmth. And now, with it’s newfound purpose, it aided in the evisceration of any remaining resistance I might have had.

I knew he would do this.

I knew it.

I knew him.

I felt and heard his inhale on my skin, at my neck and then down into and under my shirt.

It was never just one thing in one place with him either. He could put his lips on me, for example. Or his breath or his hands or his legs. Once he was close, he was everywhere. When he kissed me at the top of my sternum, his breath flowed across the middle of my collarbone, his nose caressed my neck and his hair brushed my ear and it’s all at once. Everywhere.

He maneuvered us to face the mirrored wardrobe with his front to my back, a position in which Jax, if she had harbored herself behind those mirrored doors as I suspected she did, would have seen directly with her eyes what Dante and I did by reflection. I liked that her eyes and my eyes might have taken in the same action, the same touch, the same response, the same perspective — the fact of it dispensing with the illusion of her not being in the room with us at all.

Dante’s hands unbuttoned my shirt, starting from the bottom. The first came undone with a muffled _plunk_ , and it was quickly followed by a _shshs,_ as in the sound of friction between the skin of his palm as it caressed the skin on my stomach.

His movements were unrushed and patient and steady and waiting. He was a man who could elicit a cat to come play, a cat who might hide under the bed when strangers come over, a cat easily annoyed with receiving a half-assed attention, a cat who was more mettle than coquette, a cat who knew that playing was a serious business. He took his time because he could.

He never stopped talking either. Compliments were issued in diapasons. “Micah, you’re gorgeous…you feel amazing…your skin…I missed your taste…” The things he said, none of them were things I would ever consider when I thought of myself but, _oh lord_ , he was convincing.

Off came another button, and with it, a puff of warm air, which cooled me but only until his hands were on me again.

He alternated from watching us in the mirror to focusing directly on me. I watched him collect images of us as he opened my shirt, as he slipped his hand down my pants, as he popped my waistband open and unzipped me. I watched him stretch down my clothes, his hand curled around the root of my shaft and the side of his palm pressed on the cotton and elastic that kept the rest of me constrained. I watched what he watched as he captured my kiss with my head twisted over my shoulder, everything turned toward him except my glance and his glance, which had been arrested by the view in the mirror.

“Jesus, Dante. I want…”

“Mmm?”

“I want…”

He sniggered, though it was more like a rumble, softer than a growl but with the same intent. Just in case there was any doubt, he pressed his hips against mine to demonstrate that he was as hard as fucking rock.

I wrapped my hands around him and grabbed his hips to keep his dick in just that place along my ass to pull him in, to pulse against me, his tip pressed up against that spot at the inner curve of my tailbone. Just spot itself exposed the duplicity of how far he had breached me.

And again, and still, he was everywhere.

Fingernails skated across my ribs and the hollow above my diaphragm. With the flat of his hand, he traversed my chest, my pecs, and palmed my nipples. He let them harden in slow, steady circles before he nipped them with the tips of his fingers.

In my head, I knew that I would enjoy him because I had done so before. I knew what he did and what he liked and, in my head, he fit there in this certain way that I remembered that I boxed and taped and wrapped and then I tied it with a bow, to put it back on the shelf, if for no other reason than to have helped my self stop thinking about how I wouldn’t have him.

But I forgot what it _felt_ like. I forgot how easy it was for him to overwhelm me and I forgot how simple he made it to make me to forget about everything.

Which I did.

I forgot that we were being watched.

I forgot to feel guilty.

I forgot everything other than having been slowly exposed, my shirt completely removed, my jeans bunched to my hips, my dick hung over the elastic of my underwear and of the paths, cool and slick along my skin that were delivered by his tongue.

He remained behind and worked my back with a tremendous amount of skill — or a hell of a memory. He quickly found that spot at the tip of my scapula, at the vertebra just outside of my heart, along that wide path from my pelvic bone to the side of my waist.

This was almost as good as a blow job.

Almost.

Not that I was alone in my possession of reasonably unconventional erogenous zones. What my back did to me, Dante’s legs did to him. I couldn’t get there from this position and, believe me, I tried. I had contorted backwards, and almost lost my balance as my hands skimmed along his thighs, inside his jeans, to his knees, which responded so beautifully and unbelievably that I almost thought it hadn’t been possible.

It needed to meet them again.

So I turned.

And I faced him.

I helped him out of the rest of his clothes while he remained standing.

I knelt at his feet and caressed the hollows adjoining each achilles heel. I would do more there later but there was something I needed to do first. Something that required a build up. Something that required me to let my hands coast over his orbed calves until I found the head of the deep muscle of the back of his lower leg, the one whose tendon attached to the back of his knee, the one that made him go…“Fuck, Micah.”

He curled his toes the way that he did, with the big toe crossed over the second one and he pressed it down into the floor the way I would gnaw into my lip or push my thumb against a nail when I hated a sensation at the same time that I couldn’t stand the thought of it stopping.

It occurred to me that with a slight tip of my head, I would be in a perfect position to take his dick into my mouth.

It was tempting.

But, no.

I could be patient.

There was this place above his knee that made an invisible arch with an apex mere inches over the top of his patella. It required a light touch. A thin stream of cool air, more fingernails, a scrape of teeth provoked an acute and entirely rewarding involuntary jerk of his leg while he sucked air through his teeth like I had just opened this door to a place he’d lost his own access to.

He’s the one who started with this whole leisurely pace. Though, to be honest, I couldn’t think of anything that would have spurred me on more to find those other places that might get a similar reaction. A place, for example, like that track of nerves that spanned from that spot above his knee recently rediscovered to the fleshy pad that sat just to the inside of the back of his knee, or more technically, at the attachment of the gracilis muscle.

It is as sensitive as that part of the neck favored by vampires. Getting sucked there caused Dante to buckle with a movement that started with a flutter at his inner upper thigh, much like the one across the lower part of his abs when I ran my nails up the belly of the long muscle at the front of his upper thigh.

I had thought for a moment of wanting to put him out of his misery, though it turns out that I lacked that particular quality of mercy. I took an inordinate amount of joy in the manner in which he keened. I relished the sounds he made when I kissed him at the crease of his hip, and caressed the back of his thigh, the way he panted and how his voice barely scraped along the back of his own pallet as he protested every time I stopped and every time I started again.

It was then that I caught sight of a perfectly round drop backlit in blue from the LED lights surrounding us. It was right in front of my face. I looked up at him daring him to stop me, which of course he wasn’t about to do. Instead, he threaded his fingers through the hair on the back of my scalp and closed his hands, the sting and pull forged a flexion of my neck that brought the opening of my lips almost close enough to capture the reward.

I extended my tongue and I placed it at the edge of the skin supporting this bead, a movement so small as to cause it to break under its own surface tension and burst onto my tongue.

This may have sounded subtle but it wasn’t.

I saw his reaction. I saw his lips drop open. I saw his eyes dilate. Even in this low light, the spreading black of his pupils was visible to me. I saw the compression in his chest, the one that told me I’d just stolen his breath by a teeny, tiny, clever placement where I barely, barely touched him at all and the simultaneous suggestion of him having awakened my taste buds.

Only then, only when I got him to that point, did I engulf the tip his glans with my lips, and to slide him in and out, almost on their own merit, assisted only by my saliva and the solitary drop of natural lubrication now coating my tongue.

Not far.

Centimeters.

Maybe not even an inch.

Three heartbeats to go one direction, another few to come out, another to make eye contact before slurping him in further.

“Jesus, Micah. This —,” he bent over, he interrupted me, to capture my lips in his. Then he slipped his arms under mine to lift me so that I stood in front of him again, whereupon he scooped me up and threw me on the bed.

He was on me before my rebound ended. He crawled over me and placed his hands on either side of my head, which automatically conjured the spreading of my legs, clearly they had decided before I did which way this was going to go.

“I hope you don’t mind if I fuck you into oblivion,” posed Dante, already moving down my body, bypassing most of my torso with a brief kiss here and another one there until he captured my balls with a wide swath of tongue, wetting them thoroughly, sucking on them extensively. The first. The next. And then with both in his mouth only to pull back, creating a traction until one popped out and then the other.

I may have whimpered.

Whatever had started as a long, glorious mutual session of whatever happened happened was quickly transitioning to something more urgent and thank god that Dante agreed with me.

“Lube,” he croaked.

I grabbed the bottle off the table and poured some in his hand, which he applied right to my dick in a firm slide and pull and twist and that…damn…okay. I was delighted to be well on track towards complete incoherence.

He tapped my hole with a finger with a confident _thwap_ of a finger followed but a circle around my rim in an invitation to open up for him.

He followed that with a kiss. The kind with a barely open mouth and soft lips. One that you might give at the end of a first date with someone you’d be willing to wait for. The kind of kiss that was so simple and so sweet that it was designed to melt you.

It was perfect.

Then there was more.

His forearms pressed my thighs down and out, lifting my hips in the process. He splayed me. He made me relentlessly and unapologetically open — my ass, my taint, my balls, my dick. I was all on show, especially for him. I couldn’t even arch my back he had me pressed down so hard.

In a momentary flash of awareness, I wondered what Jax was thinking and whether it mattered to her that it was going to be me that was going to get fucked. I wondered if this is what she had wanted, what she’d been hoping for or even if it was turning her on. I couldn’t hear her over our breathing or over his continuous whispers of what he wanted to do to me next.

As he worked his tongue deeper into me, my muscles fell of their bones. I opened and more than that, I really fucking needed him inside me. He knew it. I knew it. It took one split second to get him sheathed up and lubed and repositioned so that he hovered over me, a hand back on either side of my head, his tip lined up with my hole, and his hips between mine, which remained spread wide open.

“You always get me so hot, Micah.” He said it so quietly, the sound of his lips making contact with each other was louder than the words he spoke. “Jesus, you just…so good.”

He pressed.

Just.

Stayed.

He waited for me, let me stretch myself on him. The look on his face was so intense, I almost needed to close my eyes for it but more than that, I couldn’t.

Before he was all the way in, he started pulling out, his dick coming out like a spoon being pulled through honey. And he lowered to his elbows, and just as slowly pushed back into me as he nibbled at my lips, he teased them open with the tip of his tongue.

He got me.

He had me.

He was having me.

I was being consumed.

The sounds coming from me and sounds coming from him may have started out as relatively civilized but now they transitioned in a steady rise into something messy and loud that I couldn’t even process since I had no faculties for grasping anything other than him on top of me, in me, engulfing me, and in turn, my being tangled upwith my limbs around him, elastic and in tandem with the increasing frequency of the elliptical movement of his hips.

My face grew hot.

My back grew hot.

As did the base of my spine with currents of radiating warmth, that characteristic warning of approaching another tipping point, one that any moment now, I wouldn’t be able to turn back from.

“I’m going to… Dante…god…ready?”

“Yeah. Do it.”

I grabbed my dick, still slick and wet with lube, and jerked it hard and fast, and threw my head back quickly before I came back up to get his lips back on mine just in time to blow.

That kicked off the end for him, too. He was already on the way to coming when my last body spasm kicked in.

And when I opened my eyes, his were still squeezed shut. His jaw had dropped.

We were coated, shiny with sweat. And me with rivulets of my own cum meandering down sides of my ribs.

He remained fully seated, one elbow by my ear and the other arm curved around my ass as he licked me clean. He started at my shoulder and then worked down to my pec and sucked on my nipple. And instead of slowly pulling out, he stayed there, longer than he needed to and longer than he should have but I’m glad he did.

He kissed me and then he kissed me again deeply and he kept going. I thought, and maybe I hoped, that he could go again.

But we didn’t.

Instead, he leaned down to whisper one more thing in my ear, a secret, and a reverent and uncharacteristically humble one, “It’s never just a fuck with you Micah, is it.”

Not a question.

It felt wrong how he left right after that. Wrong that he looked at me with longing. Wrong that I couldn’t deny the twinge I felt either.

Wrong and complicated.

But.

Jax.

I heard a tumble of movement through the walls as I locked up and returned to her room. The smell of sex assaulted me.

She was halfway out of the mirrored wardrobe and she was wild-eyed. Apparently, it was all she was hoping for because she leaped up on me, and hitched her legs to perch on my waist with her underwear so soaked as to make my stomach wet.

She was so little, so delicate, so soft in comparison. She was so different that I instantly felt different, too. I already wasn’t the same guy that was in here a few minutes ago.

I wasn’t the one being engulfed. I was the one who was tall and strong, who threw her on the bed so that she was on her back between bounces. I was the one who settled into her thighs and fucked her senseless. And thank god I had already come because she wanted to take her damn sweet time even though I railed her with everything I had.

She looked at me glowing and happy and content and amazed. No repercussions. Not from her side, anyway.

Afterward, we laid there with her curled up and her head nestled in the crook of my shoulder. It was allergy season so her breathing gave way to the subtle see-saw of a snore.

My body was mush.

But still, I wasn’t ready to sleep just yet.

As I lie there, I cooled. As I cooled, I turned cold. And it was a cold whose origin came from the very marrow of my bones. One that would have me shivering if I let it. So I tucked myself more deeply under the covers, imagining myself asleep until I actually got there.

I dreamed that I was vast and in the process of freezing. I became an ice shelf. Below me was a glacial lake and behind me was the glacier that became me. I was floating, I was melting, I was growing, I was weakening. I sensed an imminent calving dropping pieces of me into deep blue water.

When I looked back at the boundary line, at the place where the bedrock met the water, I saw Jax. And I wondered about what would happen after I had been cleaved away and of which side of the divide she would stand on.

**Author's Note:**

> Owned by Alex de Morra


End file.
